


Forbidden

by scorchedtrees



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 08:02:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2017284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorchedtrees/pseuds/scorchedtrees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arya slips backstage at a BWB concert to meet the band only to find their sound engineer instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forbidden

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Arya/Gendry Week Day 2: Forbidden. So I'm totally new to the fandom and I haven't even finished watching the TV show yet and I've just started the first book, but I found out it was this ship week and I really wanted to write something so hence this lame little thing.

It’s luck that helps her distract the security guard at the side entrance. Well, if luck can take the form of two drunk boys, anyway.

In the middle of the crowd, with lights flashing and bass pounding, thousands of voices cheering and almost-but-not-quite drowning out the band on stage, no one pays attention to a little bit of jostling and shoving, but when two kids who barely look legal (Arya should know; she’s not exactly legal herself) start to throw punches, shouting slurred curses at each other that rise over the din of everything else, the security guard by the backstage entrance she’s been eyeing moves to break up the fight.

Instantly Arya slips over, keeping an eye on the man who’s pulling apart the two rowdy teenagers, and pushes lightly on the steel bar over the door. She half-expects it to be locked, so when the door swings open, she pauses for a moment before taking the opportunity to duck inside, ignoring the “Authorized Personnel Only” sign.

The door leads to an echoey stairwell, all gray concrete, with stained metal railings and exits on each floor. Thinking of the layout of the venue, she realizes going through the door on this level would lead straight to the stage, and she doesn’t want to meet the band just yet, not while they’re still in the middle of a performance—she wants to see their dressing rooms.

There’s probably going to be a VIP party afterwards of some sort, so she chooses the only logical direction to go: up.

The first door is locked, so she travels another flight of stairs only to find the next door locked too. Wondering if she should try a different route, she ascends one more flight and tests the doorknob tentatively; this one turns. The door opens into a red plush-carpeted hallway with glass cases lining the walls, displaying autographed concert posters dating all the way back to the early 1900s, when the venue was first established.  _No wonder the stairs are so gross,_  she thinks as she makes her way down the hallway, searching for another entrance or exit to lead her to her destination.

There are several doors lining the hall, but only the one at the far end is unlocked. Pushing it open, she steps through and stops in her tracks.

She must have found her way to the technical booth, or whatever it is that stage crew members sit in to man all the technical aspects of a performance. A man stands between rows of lights beaming down through gaps in the glass screen, adjusting and flicking switches, moving them manually—she sees him turn one light to point in at a certain angle, fiddling with something on the side, and an instant later, the stage below flashes a deep purple.

Next to him is someone else with headphones on, sitting at a large panel of knobs and switches. He must be the sound engineer—Arya steps forward for a closer look through the glass booth he is in, and at that moment he turns to push a button, and sees her.

She offers him her most innocent look through the glass and the guy blinks at her in confusion. He’s young, she thinks, surely not much older than her, early to mid-twenties at the most, and a faint frown creases his brow before he tugs his headphones off and sticks his head outside the booth.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says, his voice low; she can hardly hear him anyway through the bass pounding up from below their feet. “How’d you get here?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“Seriously,” he says. He stands, and she unconsciously takes a step back; he’s tall. A lot taller than her, though that’s not really saying much. “Who let you in? Or do you have a pass?”

She waves a hand airily in the direction of his workstation. “Shouldn’t you be busy?”

“It’s fine for now,” he says with a shrug. “I don’t need to adjust the sound much unless there’s unexpected feedback.” Then he raises an eyebrow as if wondering why he’s telling her this. “Go back to where you came from, kid.”

That annoys her; he can’t be any older than Jon or Robb. “I’m eighteen,” she lies, crossing her arms over her chest and fixing him with a glare. “Don’t call me  _kid_.”

“Alright then, ma’am,” he says dryly, earning himself another dark look, “go back to where you came from.”

He doesn’t seem inclined to drag her away though, and it’s not like he can leave this area during the performance anyway—so she ignores him and leans forward to peer at his workstation. “What do all those knobs do?”

The guy groans and looks half-ready to step out of the booth to deal with her, but then he only lets out a sigh of defeat. “Volume control,” he says.

Suddenly it occurs to her that he basically has all the sound the band is producing at his fingertips, and with that thought another pops up. “Do you work for the venue or the BWB?”

His lips twitch as he pulls his headphones back on. “BWB,” he says. “I know their setup by heart and it’s easier to have me along when they tour than training a crew member at every venue.”

“Beric doesn’t lip-sync, does he?”

“No,” the guy says, a full-blown grin on his face now, “he doesn’t. Good thing for all his adoring fangirls. You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

She’d punch him for that if she could; as it is, a glass wall stands between them, though the door is open and technically she  _could_  slip inside if she wanted. She won’t though; she’ll respect his workspace, at least.

“I’m not a  _fangirl_ ,” she settles for saying with a scowl. “I was just wondering.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

She wants to kick him. She scowls harder instead.

He doesn’t pay her any attention after that, returning to sliding knobs and moving switches and pressing buttons occasionally, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs and scratching his neck. From the glass partition high above, she can still hear the band’s music, muted and distant, but it is separated from the screaming of the crowds below. She taps her foot and mouths the lyrics when they start on one of her favorite songs, and at that moment the guy turns and gives a start when he sees her again.

“You’re  _still_  here?”

“What does it look like, stupid?”

He considers her for a moment, then removes his headphones and holds them out to her. “You wanna hear?”

She nods, delighted by the prospect; he offers her a crooked smile along with the headset as she steps into the booth.

His fingers brush hers as he hands her the headphones; his hands are warm and big compared to hers. She places the headphones over her ears and tilts her head, listening.

Beric’s voice is crystal-clear in the headset, the guitar riffs not as loud and the bass solid but quiet. The percussion is sharp and almost grating, and each part sounds separate from the others, as opposed to the great mass of sound coming live from the stage.

“It’s the sound from the mixer,” the guy explains, taking the headphones back when she pulls them off her ears. “Makes it easier to hear if there are any problems with anything.”

“That’s cool,” she says, looking around the small booth. There is an empty Coke can on the floor and a dark blue jacket draped over his chair; she can’t help noticing the strong muscles of his arms and how his gray T-shirt accentuates his shoulders. “How’d you start working for the BWB anyway?”

“I knew Anguy before the BWB made it big,” he explains. “I’ve always been into music and audio engineering—playing with sounds and enhancing them. When they made it big, Anguy invited me to tour with them.”

“I’ve never heard of you,” she says.

“That’s no surprise; I’m not in the band. I’m probably mentioned somewhere on their website in tiny print or something,” he says. “I’m Gendry.”

“Is that guy with the BWB too?” She jerks her thumb at the man working at the lighting.

“Nah, he’s part of the venue. They want to train someone for their lighting too, but it’s harder ’cause lighting systems change a lot depending on the venue. The sound system’s always pretty solid.”

He looks at her expectantly, and after a moment she realizes why. “I’m Arya.”

“Arya,” he repeats; there’s something weird about the way he says her name that makes something flip in her stomach. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

She does kick him this time.


End file.
